52 . H. ' I f " '" "'""",,t . ( . 3" < 1 . r s/5j -' '- ), .;/. f ' J ' .....%- ---"'" '; ;.: " '\ ; ... ... iI/!IJ!/! , --' r- " j ( " -:;-.- (I. '*' .... -- %" /- " , \ 1'" . "-$ n ø ............... . . "'" ' <1\... '. '$, J " -") .- f!' , " , .. '" "" r<<17 ((AT 0\Jv' n ind, I don't want to be caug-ht in any industry that sO}J e young- vJhippersnapper is about to blow the lid of} of." . ones. It was like carrying a taper along a corridor where the drafts are fierce and the chances of its staying alight pret- ty meagre. I thought of him and my children in the same instant; their foibles becaine his-my children telling me elaborate lIes about how many sweets they'd eaten, his slight puffing when we climbed steps and his try- ing to conceal it. The age difference between us In ust have saddened him. It was around then, I th.ink, that 1 real- ly fell in love vnth him. His courtshIp of me, his telegrams, his eventual depar- ture-even our lovemaking-were nothing compared with thjs new sensa- tion. It rose like sap within me; it often made me cry-the fact that he could not benefit from it! The temptation to ring him had passed away. His phone call came quite out of the blue. It was one of those times when I debated about answering, because mostly I let it ring. He asked if "ve could Ineet, if-and he said this so gen- tlY-111Y nerves were steady enoughr I said my nerves were never better. That was a liberty I had to take. \Ve met in a café for tea. Toast again. Just like the beginning. He asked how I was, remarked on my good complexion. Neither of us mentioned the incident . of the postcard. Nor did he say what impulse had moved him to telephone. It may not have been impulse at all. He talked about his work and about how busy he'd been, and related a little story about taking an elderly aunt some- where in the car and driving so slowly that she asked him to please hurry up because she could have walked there quicker. " Y ' . ...." h O d h d o u rc 0 ve r It e sal. ten, su - denl y. I looked at his face. I could see the question was on his mind. "I'm over it," I said, and dipped my finger Into the sugar bowl and let him lick the white crystals off the tip. Poor man. I could not have told him anything else; he would not have understood. In d w dY, it was like being with someone else. He "\-vas not the one who had folded back the bedspread and brought a reservoir of love and finally left hIS cigar ash for preserving. He "Vvas the ghost of that one. "\Ve'll meet from time to time," he said. "Of course." I must have looked dubious. " p h d ' ... " er aps you on t want to "\Vhenever you feel you would like to" 1 neither welcomed nor dreaded the thought. It "Vvould not make any difference to how I felt. That "vas the first time it occurred to me that all my life I had feared imprisonment-the nun's cell, the hospitdl bed, the places "Vvhere one faced the self without dis- tl action, without the crutches of other people-but, sitting there feeding him white sugar, I thought, I now have entered a cell, and this l11an cannot know ,vhat it is for 111e to love him the wa} I do, llnd I cannot weigh him down with it, beca USe he is in another cell, confronted vnth other difficulties. The cell reminded lTIe of a convent, and for sOinething to say I l11entioned . 1 " 1 111Y SIster t 1e nun. v./ent to see my . " SIster. "I-Iow is she r" he asked. He had often asked about her. He used to take an interest in her and ask what she looked like. "She's tine," I said. "\\1 e were walk- ing down a corridor, and she asked me to look around and make sure that there weren't any other sisters about, and then she hoisted her skirts up and slid down the bannisters." "Dear girl," he said. He liked that story. The smallest things gave hÍ1n such pleasure. I en joyed our tea. It was one of the nicest afternoons I had had in months, and, comIng out, he gripped my arm and said how perfect it would be if we could get away for a few days. He meant It, tuu. 1 1\ fact, we kept our promise. \Ve do meet from time to time. You could say things are back to normal again. By normal I mean a state wherein I notice the moon, trees, blobs of spit like jade upon the pavement; I look at strangers and see in their expressions somethIng of Iny own predicament. I am part of everyday life, I suppose. r[here is a lamp in my bedroom that gives out a dry crackle each time a train goes by, and at nIght I count those crackles, because that is when he comes back. I mean the 1 eell he-not the man who confronts me from time to time across a café table but the l11an that dwells SOI11ewhere within me. He rises before Iny e} es-his pr dying hands, his sly eyes, his inner smile.. the veins un his cheeks, the cal111 voice speaking sense to me. I suppose you "\-vonder why I tor- ment myself like this with details of his presence, but I need it; I cannot let go of him now, because if I did all our happiness and my subsequent pain-I cannot vouch for his-will have been for nothing, and in my experience nothings are two a penny these days. -EDNA O'BRIEN .